


pretty singer lady

by novoaa1



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Sexual Assault, Self-Esteem Issues, Vomiting, a different take on their scene together in BoP, cause what else is new, dinah has a nice car, harleen quinzel has self-esteem issues, harleys damaged and all that, just like their meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Wait a second. “How, hm… how d’ya know my name?”Pretty Singer Lady heaves another sigh. (She sighs a lot, Harley thinks.) “You told it to me. Multiple times.”Harley squints at her a little harder, cool wind whipping at her cheeks as Pretty Singer Lady turns them carefully onto a main road. “Really?”“Yes. Really.”“Why d’ya sound so mad?"Or: Harley's struggling. She meets a pretty lady with a killer voice somewhere along the way.
Relationships: Dinah Lance/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 14
Kudos: 284





	pretty singer lady

**Author's Note:**

> if yall didnt read the tags, warning for sexual assault mentions and attempted sexual assault depictions ok like just in the sense that harley uses it to cope and idk it's hard to explain just like know your triggers and everything pls

Sure, Harley’s sloppy—sloppy when she’s drunk, sloppy when she’s sober… just _sloppy_ , period. It ain’t like that’s much news to anyone, right? 

And she ain’t trying to dispute that, ‘cause she knows she’s a dumpster fire of a human being on her better days, and something unspeakably appalling on her worse—but, still, there’s something about it that’s calculated in some sense… okay?

Like, she dresses up all nice and pretty and she goes to that club Mistah J’s buddy Sionis owns on Fifth Ave and she drinks until she can’t tell the difference between up and down no more, but that ain’t because she’s stupid, alright? It’s ‘cause she _wants_ it—she _wants_ that sick feeling low in her gut, like acid and vomit and pure _hatred_ drowning beneath a sea of blessed numb: 

Hatred for Mistah J; hatred for herself; hatred for every last fuckin' limpdicked asshole that ever told her she wasn’t worth the shit beneath their shoe as if they had any fuckin’ business telling her what was what (even if they were right a helluva lot more often than Harley would’ve liked to admit). 

And, yea, because of that, bad shit happens—drunk assholes call her mean names and bitchy women throw their $24 Cosmos at her between trashy club songs and sometimes (most times), some pompous self-absorbed asshole gets a little too bold thinking he’s gonna be the one to take the drunken crazy bitch who can barely stand on her own two feet back to his place for an easy score. 

9 times outta 10, he’s right, ‘cause she wakes up in a bed she doesn’t recognize and a soreness between her thighs that she does and if she’s lucky, he’ll still be sleeping soundly beneath the sheets whilst she redresses herself and carefully gathers her things before creeping out unnoticed. (2 times out of 10, she’s not.)

It makes her sick, the thought of so many strangers’ hands on her body—and yet, there's something morbidly appealing about it, too, like maybe if those guys think she's worth something even hammered out of her mind (enough to fuck her, at least), then maybe she ain’t quite so bad after all. Then maybe she ain’t nearly as useless as Mistah J always said.

It’s like a test, she guesses, even as she knows it’s the most fucked up kinda one she’s ever proctored—a test to see if they’ll want her, if they’ll want her enough to _take_ her even when her baser instincts kick in and she’s mumbling “No,” and “Stop,” and “I wan’ go home,” all the while.

And, when the weekend’s over, she goes to the local clinic to get tested. 

She’s pretty sure whatever those weird ass chemicals did to her body back when Mistah J promised they’d be together (and she jumped off the proverbial edge of madness for him to prove that she was down to ride for him, too) made her immune to human diseases like that, ‘cause she ain’t been sick (at least, not physically) for as long as she can remember, and her STD testing comes back negative every single time even when she knows damn well a good 50% of her drunken late-night encounters don’t bother with wrapping their prick before they put it in her. 

(She doesn’t bother taking a pregnancy test at this point—she knows very well it’ll come back negative, too.)

And, next weekend, when it’s Ladies’ Night again at Sionis’s club and her thoughts won’t leave her the fuck alone and she’s aching for a shot of 80-proof poison, she gets all dolled up again—hair and makeup and sparkly clothes—and she does it all over again.

Except this time… this time, things are different. 

They don’t _feel_ different, at first. The club lights blur together in her vision and the rancid aftertaste of trashy liquor sets her throat aflame and she’s stumbling around talking to a billion people she doesn’t know (just like she always is): a tall dark-haired man with lust in his coffee-bean-brown eyes who won’t stop starin’ at her tits and a trashed-outta-her-mind blonde college kid who can barely keep herself upright (Harley drunkenly calls her an Uber and make sure she gets in it safe before moving onto the next target of interest) and, perhaps most notably of all (though Harley can’t tell ya for the life of her why), that scowling singer from before with beautiful bronze-toned skin and studded piercings lining her ear and a stupidly bewitching propensity for song that lingers pleasantly at the forefront of Harley’s intoxicated mind in such a way that even Mistah J’s nastiest insults never could. 

And, later on, when she’s swallowed more than enough acidic booze to make everything spin nauseatingly around her and she can’t quite feel the tips of her tingling fingers, there’s a man with calloused palms and a stubbly chin and jade-green eyes that scream danger guiding her all too surely out the back door—but still, something feels… off. 

She feels…. _present_ while he presses her up against the cool bricks and grinds the bulge between his legs against her exposed thigh and tries to swallow her tongue in his sour-tasting mouth without the remotest trace of finesse.

He tastes powerfully of day-old tequila and bad intent, and maybe it’s nothing new, but Harley still can’t quite help wanting to projectile vomit what little remains in her stomach besides alcohol directly into his mouth. 

(Personally, Harley blames the grumpy singer for it— _all_ of it.)

Fortunately (or unfortunately—her drunken mind can’t quite decide), it doesn’t get that far, ‘cause next thing she knows, the solid warmth of the man’s well-built body is off of hers and he’s slurring out a pissy-sounding “What the _fu_ —" that gets interrupted pretty damn quickly by the familiar (utterly joyous) sound of skin hitting skin. 

All of a sudden Harley’s free, she’s _free_ , but she’s too fucking drunk to quite know the difference, and heaven help her but she retches noisily and slides down the wall without a care for the man whose horrid taste mixes with the mouthful of vomit on her tongue, because her head is pounding and that sensitive place between her legs fucking hurts and fuck, but she doesn’t want to _do_ this again.

(She doesn’t want anyone to fuck her again, not unless she wants them to.)

She gulps down the vomit in her throat like it’s second nature (it sorta is) and nearly gags on the foul taste of it, then pulls her arms around herself that much tighter like it’ll save her from all the awful things around—meanwhile, she dazedly takes note of the pained grunts filtering through her dulled senses. 

They sound like they’re close, like they’re happening right here right now, but Harley can’t quite be sure. 

She just tightens her grip around herself and hides her burning face behind her bare knees and prays to a god she knows damn well doesn’t give two shits about someone like her that she doesn’t have to get hurt again. Not this time. 

She decides that God (whoever he is) is an asshole when she feels a pair of hands tugging at her forearms and dragging her to her feet, because really, He couldn’t give her a break this one fucking time? _Really?_ What kind of egomaniacal pretentious limp-dicked _bi_ —

_Woah_.

Scratch that. 

Maybe God deserves a raise, ‘cause right now Harley’s currently staring into the prettiest pair of chestnut-brown eyes she’s ever seen in her whole life, and maybe they’re glaring at her like she’s a fucking idiot (which she totally is) but they’re still, like, less than a foot away, and Harley doesn’t know if she’s mentioned this yet, but they’re _really_ fucking pretty. 

(Idly, she thinks that maybe the Big Guy upstairs isn’t quite so bad after all if occasionally He’s gonna see fit to throw her a little—or a _lotta_ —luck once in a while.)

“You’re… rreally pretty,” Harley manages to mumble out as she feels one of Grumpy Singer Lady’s arms come to curl around her waist (though this touch is entirely welcome, unlike that gross man from earlier). “ _And_ you smell—" Harley stops herself to inhale a generous whiff, senses overcome with saccharine-sweet hints of evergreen and sandalwood and cinnamon amidst the sweat-and-booze-y club odor that layers generously over it, “…. hm…. nice.”

Singer Lady sighs, like she doesn’t care either way. “Great.”

She begins to guide Harley along down the alley, then, (though Harley isn’t quite sure where they’re going), and Harley’s never been one for awkward silence, so she (of course) sees fit to fill the empty space with meaningless ramblings: “Y’know, this wasn’t s’posed ta’ happen.”

Singer Lady doesn’t answer, just dutifully pulls Harley along towards… is that a car? It looks nice. Vintage, with a beige-cream-ish paint job and a Jaguar Coupé kinda style. (If it was anyone else, and Harley wasn’t super super _super_ drunk, she probably woulda stole it by now.) 

Harley continues on anyways, like she has an engaged audience (which is probably the furthest thing from the truth): “I was just s’posed to get drunk, an’ let someone fuck me,” Harley slurs out, and she thinks she feels Singer Lady inhale sharply and tense her arm ever-so-slightly around her waist at that, but she figures she’s probably just imagining things. (She tends to do that, even when she’s stone-cold sober.) “You… You weren’t s’posed to be, mm…. here.”

Singer Lady is quiet for a solid second or two before she speaks up, her voice quiet and measured. “Yeah, well… sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no!” Harley immediately counters, pouting. “No disappoint! You… are, like, super pretty.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“What’s, mm… what’s your name?” Harley asks next, when they’ve made it over to the nice vintage-lookin’ car and Singer Lady is holding Harley a little tighter while she pries open the passenger’s side door. “In my head, I just been callin’ ya 'Singer Lady’ this whole time.”

She thinks she catches the barest hint of a smile while Singer Lady sets her gently in the seat and guides her legs to follow; Harley tries not to look down at her chest when she leans even further over to make something go _click_ (the buckle!—she realizes a second later); she really really _really_ tries, but her boobs are just _there_ and they look so _soft_ and Harley kind of wants to touch them—

“Slow down, Quinn,” Singer Lady admonishes (though she’s smirking as she does), pulling away and circling around the front of the car to hop into the driver’s seat. “We’re not quite there yet.” 

_Crap_ , Harley thinks. _Did I say that boob-touching part out loud?_

“Sure did,” Singer Lady quips back, that gorgeous smirk widening to dimple her chocolate-brown cheek, and—

_Shit, is she a mind-reader or somethin’?_

“Not a mind reader,” she corrects, gracefully inserting the key in the ignition and starting the engine with a rumbling growl. “You’re just hammered.”

_Ah. Makes sense,_ Harley reasons mentally, then stops herself. _Wait. Can you hear me right now?_

“Yea, I can,” Singer Lady informs her, sounding exhausted as she turns her gaze ahead and the car begins to move. (Harley nearly vomits all over again when it does, but manages to keep it together at the very last second.) 

Harley’s purses her lips, eyeing the pretty Singer Lady with a suspicious gaze. _How about now?_

Pretty Singer Lady sighs. “Yes, Harley, I can still hear you."

_Wait a second_. “How, hm… how d’ya know my name?”

Pretty Singer Lady heaves another sigh. ( _She sighs a lot_ , Harley thinks.) “You told it to me. Multiple times.”

Harley squints at her a little harder, cool wind whipping at her cheeks as Pretty Singer Lady turns them carefully onto a main road. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Why d’ya sound so mad? Is it ‘cause you don’t like me?”

Pretty Singer Lady turns to glance at her as they roll to a controlled stop at a red light, something unreadable in her pretty brown eyes. (It isn’t anger, though, Harley’s pretty sure, and she thinks that that’s gotta count for somethin’.) “It’s not that I don’t like you, Harley.”

“Did someone make you sad?” Harley questions next, her curiosity sufficiently piqued. “D’ya want me to beat them up for you? I’m real good at beatin’ people up when I’m not, y’know… “

“Drunk,” Pretty Singer Lady finishes for her in a perfect deadpan, making Harley giggle. 

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement as the car starts moving again, golden midday sunlight seeming to set Pretty Singer Lady’s drool-worthy side profile ablaze in the prettiest, most beautiful-est way. “So, what’s their name? Unless you don’t wanna talk about it, which I totally get, ‘cause sometimes things—"

“I’m not sad.”

Harley frowns, lids suddenly feeling heavy even as she struggles to keep her focus upon the super gorgeous Pretty Singer Lady beside her. “Sure, ya are.”

“No, I’m _not_.”

“Yeah, ya are. Just like me!” Harley insists, painted lips tingling. "We’re harlequins, remember?”

Pretty Singer Lady doesn’t answer that, just clenches her jaw and stares straight ahead. 

It’s silent for a long while, then, save for the whistle of the wind as they drive and the occasional stray honk or shouted string of profane insults from disgruntled civilians all around; Harley, for once, finds herself a little too drowsy to fill the silent space between them, that quiet disconnect that only seems to intensify with every second it remains unbroken. 

Strangely enough, it’s Pretty Singer Lady who finally breaks it: “Dinah,” she says, simple and quiet, so quiet that Harley’s not quite sure if she’s heard her correctly. 

“Huh?” she asks all eloquent-like, eyelids fluttering against the luminous daylight descending from above. 

“My name,” Pretty Singer Lady answers back, a little stronger this time. “It’s Dinah. Dinah Lance.”

Harley grins, something warm spreading throughout her chest that has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol roiling uncomfortably in her gut, and everything to do with this new person, with Dinah Lance and the graceful way she moves and that angular curve of her jaw and the strange degree of unobtrusive _kindness_ she’s shown Harley thus far, like she doesn’t care about the people she’s hurt or the worthlessness Mistah J always saw in her or the fact that she’s _Harley_. 

(It’s one of the best feelings in the whole wide _world_ , Harley thinks.)

“We, hm… We should be friends.”

“One thing at a time, Harley.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! idk how i feel about this pairing yet honestly
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search @ultralightdumbass to find me there!)


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